


amid the primal things

by Byacolate



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 08:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Chuck’s been apprenticing at a place for a few months now. Works with a guy who’s the stuff of legend. Bit of a prick, but there’s no one better for quality. Works color and detail like a goddamn magician. They call him Gottlieb.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time, he is shy – nervous in a way he hasn’t been for years. The looks of skepticism laser-beamed his way the instant he walks through the door don’t help the jittery feeling in his stomach, but at least he was expecting as much. He’s seventeen, but thanks to his meager height and baby face, Newt’s painfully aware that he looks a few years younger - not exactly the advisable genetics to have when you walk through the doors of a tattoo parlor. Though these people are professionals with a decent reputation, Newt’s sure they’ve seen their share of overly ambitious kids and fake IDs.

 

Newt doesn’t have one of those. He doesn’t need one, not exactly; he isn’t here to con his way into anything.

 

“Hey,” he says, clearing his throat and sidling up to the counter. The entire building smells unique – sterile, sharp. There’s a little hint of something musky, like someone behind one of the colorful doors down the hall on the other side of the counter might have lit incense.

 

There are a few people standing behind the glass stud display that serves as a counter, but the two women negotiating something about the girl’s snakebites lose interest in him almost instantly. The guy – all decked out with Danny Zuko hair and suspenders and roses on the backs of his hands – smirks a little knowingly.

 

“Hey, kid. You know I’m gonna need to see your ID.”

 

Newt scratches the back of his neck and smiles back. “That’s cool if you want, but I’m not here to have any work done. Um, I just wanted to know if you’ve got a broader portfolio for Gottlieb’s stuff than you have on your website.”

 

The guy narrows his eyes for all of two seconds before he nods over at the small cluster of plush chairs in the corner behind Newt, where a table is piled high with wide black binders.

 

“Knock yourself out, kiddo.”

 

Newton is only too hasty to comply.

 

* * *

 

It was a recommendation from a friend of his father that started it all.

 

Well, not _everything_ , obviously. Newt had been planning this since he was a fourteen-year-old high school graduate with too much energy to burn and not enough creative outlets in their small two-bedroom apartment in Boston. He’s collected ideas – things that mean the world to him, little moments, dumb things like Godzilla movies at two a.m. with his uncle, and the ultra-fuzzy moths he’d catch in the summer with his cousin down in Tennessee, and the gardenias his mother left on the windowsill the day before she left them for Germany. The ideas build and evolve and change over time, and so far he’s only got one full and a partial sleeve planned, but Newt’s not an idiot – he’s got his entire life ahead of him to cover the living canvas that is him body.

 

But he’s seen the horrors online, the back alley artists and the ambitious friends of friends with tattoo guns, so he’s staved off temptation to go through underhanded means to get the ink he wanted, kept himself to his designs.

 

His father probably kept Herc from telling him about the parlor for three years for fear that Newt might have weaseled his way into a fake ID just to get in. It was a fair enough assumption to make – Newt was definitely tempted when the ex-Marine told him about it over dinner not three weeks ago.

 

“Chuck’s been apprenticing at a place for a few months now,” he’d said, eying Newt meaningfully. “Works with a guy who’s the stuff of legend. Bit of a prick, but there’s no one better for quality. Works color and detail like a goddamn magician. They call him Gottlieb.”

 

Newt had his phone out on Google so aggressively fast that he was surprised he hadn’t broken the screen.

 

Yelp reviews made it clear that anyone who wasn’t done by Gottlieb couldn’t stand his attitude – made him the sole reason the parlor didn’t get five stars across the board (and apparently one interesting incident involving the "inappropriate behavior of an artist struting around in the buff", which had to be bullshit). But it was evident that anyone Gottlieb had taken care of were presently or potential return clients, gushing about the cleanliness, the quality, the value for money.

 

After three weeks of manic searching through any article and poorly sized Google image of Gottlieb’s work, it comes as a surprise to no one when he borrows his dad’s pickup and heads south.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Doc,” the guy at the desk calls at some point (Newt can’t be sure how much time has passed without checking his phone; he sorta maybe got lost in Gottlieb’s first portfolio page one) when the bell over the door chimes. Newt barely even noticed that the front door had opened in the first place. He glances up just briefly to see a startlingly well-dressed man stroll toward the counter with a slight limp in his step, aided by a pretty deadly looking black cane. Suspenders seemed familiar with him anyway, leaning over the counter on his elbows and lowering his voice like he wanted to have some sort of private conversation in the middle of a shop.

 

Not the kind of guy Newt expected to see in a tattoo parlor, but no judgments there. Maybe the dude was hiding some pretty sick tattoos under his soft gray cardigan. It wasn’t really any of his business, so Newt returned his attention to the broad, sweeping designs on the page in his lap. God, the Yelp reviews didn’t do him justice - the flash art and sketches in the book were  _extraordinary_.

 

Newt hadn’t really intended to come in for a consultation - he'd thought it might be better to do that if he’d set an appointment and was maybe of legal age. But he’s itching to meet the man who could work magic like this on paper and skin, to have the gun against his forearm and the pleasant memories of his childhood etched forever in his flesh. Gottlieb is the guy to do it.

 

He’s got a month to go before his birthday yet, but that doesn’t mean he can’t inquire after some expert advice on his designs.

 

His designs, which - shit. He didn’t bring them. He didn’t think he’d need to.

 

Not a big deal. The parlor would still be here if he ran home and came back. Newt delicately shuts the portfolio binder and lays it on top of the others.

 

Without his noticing, both the women and the man with the cane have disappeared completely and Suspenders is the only one left in the room with him. He looks up from a box of turquoise plugs and quirks an eyebrow when Newt approached the counter. Newt's feeling a little more confident now that he's confirmed that he knows exactly what he wants. “Find what you’re looking for?” Suspenders asks conversationally. Newt adjusts his glasses and smiles broadly.

 

“Yeah, I did. Thanks. Hey, is Gottlieb in today?”

 

Suspenders gives him a weird look before he answers shortly, “Yeah.”

 

“Cool. Cool. Um, does he do - I dunno, would he ever… consult on a design? Before an appointment for the actual hard labor?”

 

“He might,” Suspenders says with a cryptic sort of cadence. “He’s got an appointment at five, but until then it’s just a walk in free for all. If no one wants him until then, you’ve probably got a bit of time. Hey." He leans over the counter with an amused little smile. "Are you sure you want Gottlieb, kid? He’s good, but he’s… a little intense for a first timer.”

 

“Oh, dude, yes. It’s _gotta_ be him.” Does that sound weird? That probably sounds weird. Newt was fine with weird as long as it got him the best artist he’d ever seen. Suspenders just shrugs.

 

“You know what you want, kiddo - that’s good. He can be a little harsh with flip-floppers.”

 

“Oh, no flipping or flopping here, no sir,” Newt said, backing away towards the door. “I’ll definitely be back. Don’t let Gottlieb lose his hands or anything while I’m gone.”

 

“Not a chance, little guy,” Suspenders snorts as Newt all but throws himself out the door and into the car park.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Suspenders - who he discovers has a name: “Tendo; Mister Choi if you’re nasty” - gives him a devious look when he makes it back an hour later. Newt really doesn’t know how to feel about that, except maybe a little nervous, but Tendo only laughs at his trepidation.

 

“I’m sorry, little dude; someone called in for him just a few minutes after you left. She’s gonna be here in half an hour. He’s prepping in the back.”

 

“No, I’ve finished,” a prim voice cuts in before Newt can throw a fit. Newt’s heart does this terrible, heavy thud in his throat and his clammy hands grip around the folder a little too tightly, which is ridiculous. It’s just one man. One insanely talented man who’s going to hold a tattoo gun up to his skin over and over and satisfy a thousand year itch. Three year itch. Whatever.

 

His eyes go a little wide behind his glasses because it’s the same guy from earlier - the one with the badass cane and the glasses just this side of too big to be as hipster as Newt’s. He’s got an eyebrow cocked and an expectant expression on his face. Newt never actually tried to picture Gottlieb before, because that was edging a little too far on the creepy setting of his brain for Newt’s liking, but he definitely didn’t think he’d have such an arrogant froggy face. Seriously, the guy wore snobbery like a well-tailored suit, like looking down his nose was the only way he knew how to see. Newt is absolutely going to blame teenage hormones for the way that just makes him more appealing. If Gottlieb is as good as his art professes, he deserves to look arrogant. Such is the logic of Newt's penis.

 

“Tendo tells me you’re interested in a consultation. Perhaps you would like to see me in the back?” he says, expression entirely unreadable. God, he has an accent, and it’s as pretentious as his face. Newt’s tripping over himself to follow.

 

Tendo takes pity and lifts the velvet rope (seriously, okay, Newt saw that before and it’s never not going to be funny) and Newt follows after Gottlieb where he’s walked back to one of the doorways along all three sides of the tiny hall. It’s the room without burning incense, he can tell right away, but the scent of ink is sharp and exciting - thicker here than it was in the reception room. There are a few familiar framed pieces of flash art on the pastel green walls - it’s a little embarrassing that Newt actually remembers seeing them, way down deep in the Google image trenches - and all in tidy rows on a few see-through shelves above a workstation are dozens of little bottles of ink.

 

It’s not a large room, but it isn’t cramped either. There’s a black leather chair that reminds him of the dentist’s office, and a smaller one on wheels that Gottlieb takes a seat in, tilting his chin up at Newt in expectation. And Newt - Newt is still in the doorway, half out in the hall. He takes a quick step inside and looks at the doorknob for a too-long second, wondering if he should close it and then wondering why he was taking so long to wonder whether or not he should close it because he was probably, definitely starting to look like an idiot.

 

In situations like these, Newt has learned to take on the role of the fool with grace. He grins a little sheepishly at Gottlieb and leaves the door alone. “Hi,” he then makes a complete ass out of himself stuttering, because he does nothing by halves. “It’s nice to meet you, uh. My name’s Newt. Newton Geiszler. Please, call me Newt. I’m probably going to shake your hand now,” he warns as he feels his hand fling itself in Gottlieb’s direction. Maybe Gottlieb isn’t used to being treated so formally (or so dorkily, or possibly both), because for the first time his expression wavers to one of surprise.

 

His eyes are a little wider when he looks up at Newt. They’re soft and brown. He has nice eyelashes. God, Newt is taking fanboying to a weird level. “I’m a huge fan, dude, you have no idea. I - I want to get some work done soon, and I just want your feedback? That’s not - that’s not actually a question, sorry. Uh. I’m seventeen.”

 

Gottlieb’s thin lips part a little and his eyes narrow, like he’s trying to figure Newt out. Then he takes the hand that Newt’s been holding out for way too long and shakes it. His hands are cool and dry. “Whoa, cold hands, warm heart,” Newt says before he can stop himself. Gottlieb seems almost startled into laughter and releases his hand.

 

“Something like that,” he chuckles. That’s good, that’s definitely a good thing. Laughter  _usually_ means good things. “I don’t have much time, I’m afraid. Why don’t you show me your design.”

 

On command, Newt pulls the folder from under his arm and holds it out to Gottlieb. He definitely isn’t nervous handing over his labor of love to his idol. God no. Why would that make him nervous? And after Gottlieb takes it, Newt only wipes his sweaty palms off on his jeans because it’s… no, yeah, he’s absolutely out of his mind with anxiety. “I wanted to make an appointment to get this done in a couple months, too. I know I’m jumping the gun a bit, but it’s - I’ve had this in mind for a long time, and I’m not what you’d call a patient person.”

 

There are only a few pages: one full of each individual design, one of the right left sleeve, and one of the partial left sleeve. They aren’t professionally done - he’s never proclaimed to be an artist, much less a flash expert. But if Gottlieb can even get a taste of Newt’s vision, he’d be more than happy to give him artistic license. God, for Gottlieb use his body as a freestyle canvas -

 

"This is a little ambitious, don't you think?" he says, squinting down at the design like a crotchety old man instead of a haughty twenty-something swamped in a hipster cardigan. Before Newt can properly verbalize his indignation beyond a shrill huff, Gottlieb glances up at him over the rim of his grandad glasses. He looks and sounds like he's talking to a child. Newt can feel lhis hackles rise. "This is a lot of work, Newton. I know it only seems like putting a few designs together, but this will take weeks. And there are occupational risks for having so much ink in plain sight; employer prejudice is far from nonexistent. There are several jobs that may refuse to hire you based on the high visibility of your design. And I don’t know how to break this to you gently, but a job of this magnitude won’t come cheap. You aren't even eighteen."

 

"Right, right,” Newt says, a little numb, then a little pissed. “Because any thoughts and ideas I've had before my eighteenth birthday have all been meaningless and juvenile. No, I get it.”

 

Gottlieb slowly closes the folder, his face patient and infuriatingly pursed again. "If I'm upsetting you, perhaps you should consult with Tendo instead - "

 

"It has to be you!" Newt blurts, shoving the folder back when Gottlieb tries to hand it back to him. To be honest, he’s not sure why he’s done that. Kneejerk reactions were weird. Gottlieb looks surprised. Licking his lips, Newt tries again. “Sorry. Sorry. Look. I - I get it. I’ve been planning this for like, nearly four years, man. I’ve done the research. I understand the risks. And geez, I’m not an idiot, I’ve saved up. This is really important to me; doesn’t matter if it takes a year, I want it done. And I want you to do it.”

 

Gottlieb hands over the folder a little more firmly and Newt feels a sinking feeling in his gut. He tries not to notice how pretty Hermann’s pale wrist is as it’s busy flinging his hopes and dreams back in Newt's face.

 

“Alright,” is what comes out of Gottlieb’s mouth instead of the expected ‘fuck off’ which is more than a relief.

 

Seriously. There should be a word for feeling so relieved you’re afraid you might shit yourself. A word for when relief feels like a punch in the gut. “Why don’t you make an appointment with Tendo, then. We can talk detail when you’re legally allowed to be under my gun.”

 

Wow, is that actually as hot as it sounds or is Newt just crazy? He's gone through about ten different mood swings in the past five minutes, so he'd rather not think too hard on that.

 

“Okay, yes. Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks.”

 

If he stands and stares at Gottlieb in wonder for another couple of seconds, well. It's probably not that bad. Gottlieb just ends up shooing him out with the blunt end of his cane and strangely enough, that leaves him feeling a lot less like an idiot than any stiffly polite words ever could.

 

* * *

 

“Mission accomplished,” Newt smugly informs Tendo as he swaggers up to the red velvet rope.

  
When he can’t unclip it from the wall after a few jerky manoeuvres, Tendo snickers. “He’s got a soft spot for dorks, kid. Just your luck.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ‘Francesca’ by Ezra Pound: _I who have seen you amid the primal things / Was angry when they spoke your name / In ordinary places_
> 
> I was bemoaning the lack of Newmann AUs on Tumblr the other day, so I decided I might as well take my own advice and start another.  I'm so sorry.
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://byacolate.tumblr.com/).


End file.
